


Nice Work If You Can Get It (And You Can Get It If You Try)

by silverotter (hooraytheweird)



Category: Ocean's Eleven (2001)
Genre: Art Thievery, Heist, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:14:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hooraytheweird/pseuds/silverotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new superthief with a sense of humor, balls of steel, and the dumbest name in the history of conmen? Just who the hell <i>is</i> this guy anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice Work If You Can Get It (And You Can Get It If You Try)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [revolver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolver/gifts).



> My most supreme thanks to my betas, Leah and snowynight! And this story is dedicated to Hannah, who's wildly-disproportionate cheerleading calmed some serious last-minute flanicking.

The first time Rusty hears the whispers he’s somewhere in Texas, working on a piece of business at a club in the gay district of an overgrown town. Not exactly his usual line of work, but too much of his youth was misspent in the basement of Mary's to let it close with a yuppie-induced rent-hike whimper. Of course, this business has to take place in the middle of July, and the Gulf has this oppressive wet-heat going on, like someone cranked up the heat on a sauna to “high”. Consequently, and in defiance of the industrial air conditioning howling through the basement, Rusty's shirt (a color-shifting pink-toned monstrosity he bought just for the look on Danny's face) is saturated with humidity and sweat, causing it to stick to his back in the most unpleasant way.

He's seated at a bar stained with decades of cigarettes, trying to look over blueprints (and really just contemplating if he can get away with taking his shirt off ) when his elaborate fantasy of the pool at the Wynn Hotel is broken by an insistent hissing coming from the corner. With a sigh, he glances up to make sure it isn't the ancient boiler getting ready to explode or something equally dire. Instead, he sees his two assistant financiers sitting at one of the old rickety bar tables, heads bent together in what appears to be a very involved conversation, if the (rather excessive) hand waving is anything to go by.

With a groan, he levers himself off the bar stool, wincing as one of his knees pops. _Getting old_ , he thinks in a voice that sounds disconcertingly like Danny. Making a face, he shakes that thought off with a full body jitter, like a horse dislodging flies. Can't afford to have those kind of thoughts, not in this business. You're either in it or you're dead. Reuben proved that to them. Eat or be eaten.

With that in mind, he straightens his back, brushes some non-existent dust off the damp pink polyester, and puts some swagger in his step as he makes his way over to the little table in the corner. As he gets closer, he can hear the word “king” repeated with some frequency. No mention he can tell of their cut of the finances, which is good. The percentage they received of the jewels they liberated from the museum basement to fund the re-opening of the bar was more than generous.

“Gentlemen,” Rusty says, coming up between Steven (a gregarious English ex-pat with a real knack for a conman's smooth patter--he could talk the hat off the Pope) and Jack (a more-than-slightly neurotic chainsmoker, who's neurosis allows him to focus on and perfect the smallest details). “I enjoy gossip as much as the next thief. Why don't you regale me with whatever highly exaggerated tale of dashing derring-do is currently doing the scuttlebutt circuit?”

Steven clutches his heart briefly, and throws his other hand out in a dramatic gesture. “Jesus Russ, you gave me a fright. Nearly jumped out of me skin.”

Jack rolls his eyes at his partner. “Shut it limey,” he says, giving Steven a little shove. They have a brief tussle before Steven refocuses his attention on Rusty. Casually sparking up a cigarette, he produces a small shrug. “Just the normal stuff. You know, some new guy taking the underworld by storm.”

“Oh?” Rusty inquires, taking the third seat at the table. “Do tell?”

“Well,” says Jack, taking up the thread, “They're calling him the King, because apparently he robbed Graceland.”

Rusty blinks, utterly nonplussed. “Graceland?” he repeats incredulously.

“Yeah mate,” Steven continues, “Turns out there were more than rhinestones in that white slapper suit of Prestley's. Apparently he was more than a bit paranoid, so he had a bunch of diamonds sewn into the...” he trails off and then cups himself briefly with a lascivious grin before spewing out a lungful smoke with a great belly laugh. “Certainly gives a new meaning to the term 'family jewels'!”

Jack nearly spits out a mouthful of his beer as he laughs along with Steven, causing Steven to make a faux-disgusted face as he wipes some rogue spray off his face. “Filthy heathen.”

“You love it,” Jack riposts, a sneaky grin spreading across his face.

Rusty leaves them to it, and heads back to his blueprints at the bar. Stealing rock n' roll diamonds from what was more or less someone's house? Very flashy. Very showy. And very flash-in-the-pan. That kind of high profile thievery was very difficult to maintain. Either you ran out famous, slightly-silly things to steal, or you got caught because you developed a pattern and all the places where famous, slightly-silly items were housed got wise and upped their security.

Satisfied that he probably won't be hearing very much more about this “King” (and, good god, what a name) Rusty turns back to his blueprints without another thought.

–

The next time Rusty hears the whispers, he's in Los Angeles, working on an art job. It's coming up on Saul's fifth anniversary with his lady from the unmentionables counter, and Rusty wants to get him something special. So he's hooked up with Basher to pick up Van Gogh's _Irises_ , which resides at the Getty Museum, and just happens to be both Saul and (Maisie?)’s favorite Van Gogh. The Getty isn't too big, or too high security, so it's not the most strenuous of jobs, and before he knows it he's got the painting wrapped up and shipped overnight to Florida, with a lovely counterfeit (courtesy of Roman) in place at the Getty.

He kicks back with Basher in Deep, savoring the rush of a job well done, and they're trading stories about some of the more absurd art steals they've heard of. Rusty's just finishing up a tale of mystery, lust, and Bernini, with the moral that Agalmatophilists shouldn't be allowed on any museum-jacking team, when Basher's eyes light up.

“Mate, you ever heard of the King?”

Rusty makes a face. “The Elvis guy?”

“That's the one. Only he's moved up a bit in the world—I have it from some very reliable sources that he's got _The Fairy Thief_.”

Rusty almost misses the table as he puts down his glass, banging it against the edge hard enough that some of the contents sloshes out, saturating the bar fries he's been munching on with cucumber-spiked gin. “ _What_?” he asks in a flat tone of voice. “ _What_? But...” he trails off, collecting his thoughts. _The Fairy Thief_ was the absolute brass ring of the art-thief world. Very few people knew about it, but those who did, mattered. Last time he'd heard of _The Fairy Thief_ , some Irish prodigy genius had nabbed it from a German vault, and then sent it to the Louvre in what appeared to be a moment of temporary insanity.

“I thought the Louvre had it.” Rusty says finally, taking a casual sip of his drink.

“Aye mate,” Basher says, a gleeful smirk playing across his face. “They did. This crazy bloke broke into the highest security museum vault in the world. But d'you want to know the best part?”

Rusty swallows, and takes a deep breath, trying to quell the nasty feeling that's starting to curl in the pit of his stomach. “Tell me the best part,” he says, in a reasonable facsimile of his normal aura of amused calm.

“ _He didn't even take it_. He broke into the vault, locked it back up, _hung it on the wall_ , and left a note that said, 'anything this beautiful should be on display'. Took them three days before they figured it out.”

“You're joking.”

“Nope,” Basher says, “He's a right rooney.”

“Huh.” Rusty says, distractedly worrying a loose piece of skin off his lip with his teeth.

“Well,” Basher says, “I'm off out. Got another job to see to in London. Roman and me putting together another little plan.”

“Good luck,” Rusty says, clasping forearms with his friend.

“Aye,” Basher says, giving Rusty a sidelong look. “You as well.”

Before Rusty can ask what exactly Basher means he's out the door in a swish of purple pleather. Rusty sighs, and contemplatively munches on the remaining gin-soaked fries. This is getting serious. The King could've taken anything he wanted from the Louvre vaults, but he chose _The Fairy Thief_. No one outside their world understands the relevance of stealing that piece of work. And that cheeky little note? Just the icing on the cake. Who the hell _is_ this guy?

\--

In Montauk, working on a little piece of business for Reuben involving a lighthouse and a cheating fisherman, the whispers turn dark. Up til now, the tone had been gleeful, thieves (helpless gossipmongers, every one) swapping giddy tales of the man who was yanking the rug out from under the feet of the criminal world. Now, under the gloomy northern New York sky, the buzzwords change. Guns and death and bodies and _this is not how they work_. This isn't clean, and this isn't quiet, and this isn't how this is supposed to go down. The papers still haven't gotten a hold of anything beyond the _Fairy Thief_ , but when bodies start floating down the Hudson, it's only a matter of time, and Rusty isn't about to let some careless upstart fuck this up for the rest of them.

Rusty doesn't like to kid himself about this life, but sometimes (smoking cigars in front of the Bellagio, watching fireworks explode for a doomed hotel) it's so easy to forget how inherently dangerous pulling a job is. How quickly things can get sticky. The whispers bring him back to reality with a sickening thump.

So, he does the only thing left to do, whips out his cellphone and dials up the one guy he's sure will know.

–

“Sorry bud,” Danny says, sipping his tumbler of whiskey, relaxing into the filthy burned wood of his stool at the Double Down Saloon like it's the plushest banquette in Las Vegas. The sign outside says “happiest place on earth,” but Rusty is feeling pretty far from happy at the moment. He's the details guy, the connections guy, and this is one big fucking knotted detail that he can't seem to unwind. Danny doesn't know, Saul doesn't know, Reuben doesn't know, Basher doesn't know, and Livingston, his last resort, sure as shit doesn't know. It's like trying to catch fucking smoke with your bare hands. Like the Night Fox times one hundred.

This is normally where he'd call up Linus and get him to do some legwork, but he's been irritatingly incommunicado recently. Even a call Rusty put in to Mr Caldwell went unanswered beyond a courtesy, “He isn't available right now” return message.

“Don't worry about it,” Danny says, breaking through Rusty's dark thoughts. “It'll blow over.”

Rusty sighs, and levels a look at Danny.

Danny bobs his head and breaks eye contact, forcing down a little smile. “That's right.” he says, giving Rusty's shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Now think about it...”

And Rusty drops his head into his hands and sighs again, because he is seriously, seriously an idiot.

–

By the time Rusty makes it back to his apartment in Chicago, Linus is already waiting for him. He's leaning against Rusty's black Italian marble counter top like he owns the place, munching what is unmistakably an Italian beef sandwich from Al’s down the street. He doesn't look anything like the awkward little kid Rusty is used to picturing, which, Rusty supposes, was the whole damn point to all this.

“Hi,” Rusty says dryly, pulling a bottle of water out of his fridge and taking a long swig.

“Hi.” Linus replies, his tone flawlessly nonchalant, but his hands a little less so. He's inspecting his nails, picking at the cuticles. It's nerves, not insouciance.

“So it was all a scam?” Rusty asks, point blank. He never was one for beating around the bush. “Just to, what, get my attention?”

Linus shrugs smoothly. “It wasn't all a scam. I might have called in a few favors so the right information circled back to you, but I did pull all those heists.” For a second there's a flash of the over-eager amateur Rusty used to know. “That _Fairy Thief_ thing was pretty good, huh?”

Rusty isn't about to let this go that easily. “And the other rumors?” He asks, leveling a steady look at Linus. “Bodies?”

Linus scoffs. “Please. What do you take me for? My dad would have me skinned if I ever did something that stupid. The tales of my cruelty have been greatly exaggerated, I am not the Dread Pirate Roberts, etcetera, etcetera.”

Through a great show of effort, Rusty leaves the Princess Bride reference for now, still too hung up on baby Linus all grown up. Resting all his weight on one foot, arms crossed loosely against his chest now that he's finished his sandwich, he looks...competent. Rusty has always found competence sexy.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Linus offers, his hooded eyes contrasting with his hands, now nervously twining over themselves, now tucked in his pockets, now tapping against his legs.

Rusty answers with a growl, striding across his kitchen with two steps, shoving his mouth against Linus's neck, wet and lewd til he's got Linus panting, spread back against that flawless marble countertop looking like every half-illegal wet dream ever. It's only a second though before Linus is back on his feet, hands fisted in Rusty's hair, tonguing a stripe up behind Rusty's ear, scraping his teeth down the cartilage, gnawing on the earlobe.

“Don't think I'm a baby,” Linus whispers, hoarse, and hot, and rough. “Don't think you can get away with some sloppy handjob and then just leave me here, cock in my hand.”

Rusty tries to get off a witty response, but Linus is already unzipping his slacks, shoving pants and underpants down in one smooth motion as he drops to his knees.

 _Ah, youth_ , Rusty thinks in a brief moment of smarmy clarity. Linus rubs his face against Rusty's crotch like a cat, reveling in the smell and feel. “Is this,” he asks, looking up, nose still buried in the furrow between Rusty's cock and thigh, “Okay?”

“Fine.” Rusty grunts shortly, twining his fingers tightly into Linus's short hair, causing Linus to practically _purr_ as he gets back to the business at hand, mouthing Rusty's balls, sucking them both into his mouth as one hand works loosely up and down Rusty's shaft. “Mmm...” Rusty groans out, but doesn't say anything, letting Linus have his head. _Hah_ , he thinks, half hysterically, bracing himself against his almost-empty Sub-Zero refrigerator, _Head_.

Linus smirks up at him briefly, eyes smoldering, before sucking the head of Rusty's cock into his mouth, tongue playing over the slit, humming happily at the salty/creamy taste that is so distinctly _Rusty_. Breathing deeply through his nose, Linus braces one hand firmly against Rusty's straining thigh before pushing his head as far down as he can, swallowing compulsively against Rusty's cock.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Rusty gasps, gripping Linus's hair even tighter, resisting the urge to guide him up and down. As if reading his mind, Linus slides off Rusty's cock with a wet _pop_ , and looks up at him, lips red and swollen, looking thoroughly debauched. “It's okay,” Linus says, after working his jaw for a second. “You can fuck my mouth.” And then he grins, all feral teeth and lust-fogged eyes.

And, again, _fuck_ , and what the _fuck_ , and _how_ the fuck had he been so blind that he'd deprived himself of this for the past four years? But really, regret is a useless emotion, so Rusty pushes that thought aside, grabs Linus's head with both hands and thrusts into his mouth, reveling in the dual sensations of the slick slide of Linus's tongue along the bottom of his cock, and the slightly sharp, dangerous graze of teeth along the top. Linus matches him thrust for thrust, swallowing on every downstroke, creating a hot, wet suction.

“Oh god,” Rusty hisses out between his grit teeth. “ _Good_ ,”

“Mm,” Linus agrees, pushing his mouth even further down Rusty's cock, til his nose wedges against Rusty's pubic bone. Hearing a quiet whimpering noise coming from the vicinity of his crotch, Rusty looks down to the glorious sight of Linus with his fly open, frantically stroking himself, cock red and leaking over Rusty's several-hundred dollar John Fluevog shoes, and that's it, that's all she wrote. With a final snap of his hips, Rusty is spurting down Linus's throat, who, for his part, takes it in stride, throat working even faster as he swallows Rusty down, making low, happy noises deep in his chest, sucking down the last of Rusty's cum before striping the floor and the cuffs of Rusty's pants with his own release.

There's a split second pause, where they're both frozen in time, before Rusty slithers down the side of his refrigerator with as much grace as he can muster, just in time to catch Linus against his chest as he pitches forward, still panting hot and heavy into the curve of Rusty's neck.

“So...” Rusty says after a moment. “Does this make me the King's consort?”

And then Linus is laughing, eyes bright and happy, and he pulls away to look Rusty in the face. “I was thinking more 'The Queen',” which of course earns him a cuff upside the head, but he's too busy being stupid, and happy, and _oh god_ , in love, to care, so he just keeps laughing, burrowing his nose into the sweaty divot below Rusty's neck, and Rusty laughs along, because what else can he do?

Sprawled out on Rusty's kitchen floor of debatable cleanliness, pants around their ankles, they look more like a couple a teenagers than a couple of professional con-men. And frankly, Rusty hasn't felt this much like a teenage since before he was one. Wild and needy aren’t emotions he’s used to, and it sets him more than a little off-balance. But if it means he gets to tug Linus up by his hair and lick into his mouth, sloppy and wet like it’s his right, a little insecurity is something he’s more than willing to deal with.

**Author's Note:**

> So there it is. My apologies for the lack of Linus in the bulk of the story, since that's all you asked for, but he absolutely insisted on being mysterious right up until the very last second. I hope you enjoyed it, and happy Yuletide!


End file.
